uncovering

I found this in an old diary -- thought I'd share . . .

If I were made of wax, there would be knives that cut me deep, then heat applied to melt on top, to make it cling to my skin, and become an embedded, absorbed wound. These are, of course, my stretch marks. They map my body, and were bourn cut deep inside of me. There is a scaly, soft surface to them each. They shine if the light hits just so. But there is no smooth, uninterrupted caress over them. Like scales, there is tension, and a soft sticking that makes your finger stop, get caught.

Stretch marks are not for gliding over, by eyes or hands or tongues. The prickle brings the outside in, plunges you momentarily into the deep wound that exists through a myriad of colors, mediated by flesh and light. Some purple, mauve, crimson, pearl, iridescent. Some long and jagged, some fading into nothing. Directional, relational, and some just planted like islands -- under my arm, where my hips and stomach meld, underneath my heavy breasts, like fish collecting where it is cold -- or rather, snakes converging on hot spots. The hissing is inside.